


Sky

by saltsanford



Series: Starships [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Chex - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pole Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-01-15 11:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford
Summary: When a new instructor joins the dance studio that Tucker teaches at, he has to take the advice he so often gives his own students: that you can always learn something new, and that the most difficult lessons have the biggest payoff.





	1. Chapter 1

Tucker likes blue music. Not blue as in _the blues_ (although yeah, that's good shit right there) but— _blue_ . As in, morning sky blue. As in, crystal water blue. Blue as in, running rivers and pouring rain, robin eggshell blue and milky paint blue. He loves all music, whether it’s a fiery red, blushy pink, or a gentle green, and he loves to mix it up, especially for his students. But more often than not, when it’s just him and a sun-soaked studio at the end of the day, the music he loses himself in is _blue_.

He'd tried to explain this to Church once. He hadn't really wanted to, but he'd been left with no choice when he'd absentmindedly asked Church to "put on that new song you have, the sunny orange one." Church hadn't exactly laughed at him, but he'd definitely looked at Tucker as if he'd had five heads. Tucker didn't know which was worse: his best friend thinking he was kind of crazy, or Caboose nodding in perfect understanding and leaning across the desk mid-acro class to switch on _the exact song_ Tucker had been talking about. "It _is_ very orange, isn't it?" Caboose had said thoughtfully, before readjusting Carolina on his shoulders and wandering back across the studio.

After that, Tucker gave up trying to hide the weird thing he did. He was always talking about songs by their colors, and his students loved it, even if they didn't really get it. "Can we do a pink one today?" they'd gush, and Tucker would say _shit, yeah, let's dance to a pink song._ Music and color had always been wound so tightly together for him that it had been more than a little surprising to learn that not everyone thought this way.

All he knows is he likes blue music. So when he walks into the studio one day to see—

 _Wait_ , back up.

It starts the day a new instructor joins the Chorus studio team. Tucker doesn't _know_ he's the new instructor at first: the dude just shows up in the back of Tucker's modern dance class, fumbling along awkwardly to the choreography. It's not until Tucker introduces himself after and encourages him to come back—he's definitely physically gifted, even if he is a little stiff—and the guy laughs a little. “Oh—I'm not a student—well, I suppose I am, we're always students, right? But—I'm Wash.”

Tucker continues to stare at him and Wash rubs the back of his neck. "Wash—David Washington? The new instructor?"

"Oh!" Tucker slaps his forehead. "Shit man, why didn't you say something?"

"I'd hoped my prowess in your class would give it away," Wash says dryly, and laughs when Tucker fumbles for a response. "It's okay....I'm not usually this bad, I swear."

Tucker ( _very quietly, very privately_ ) doubts this, but he just shakes Wash’s hand. His hand is calloused and firm and strong, the kind of strong that comes from years of training one’s grip. “What do you teach?”

“Pole dance—I’ll be teaching a couple different levels—and a flow fusion class.”

Tucker tilts his head. “What’s that? That something new?”

“Oh—yeah, something I made up. It’s kind of a freestyle class. Just to, uh. Teach the students to focus on musicality.”

It takes everything Tucker has to keep himself from raising his eyebrows at the thought of this poor guy teaching anyone about musicality. Something must show on his face anyway, because Wash laughs and claps a hand on Tucker’s shoulder. His nice, strong hand. His calloused, warm, firm—shit he's cute. _Fuck_. “You should come to my class sometime.”

“Fuck yeah! I mean—freestyle isn’t really my thing, but…hey, you showed me your moves, right? I can show you mine.”

He can see Church and one of the aerial silks instructors, Tex, both face palming at the desk over Wash’s shoulder, but Tucker ignores them and finishes it off with a wink. Wash ducks his head and blushes a little, so Tucker’s going to call that a win. “Sounds good. Hey—it was nice to meet you. You’re an incredible dancer.”

Now Tucker’s the one blushing and ducking, his gaze snapping straight to the floor. “Oh—uh—cool. That’s cool. Thanks, man.”

By the time he gets his shit together and wipes the moony grin off of his face, Wash is gone, Church is miming banging his head on the desk, and Tex is mock-vomiting into the trash can. Tucker throws a can of grip aid across the studio at them, and gets to work cleaning up after his class.

The memory of Wash lingers in the back of Tucker’s mind, throughout the rest of his classes. There had to be something he was missing. Vanessa Kimball, the studio owner, only hired the best of the best. Technique and strength were important factors when searching for her instructors, but musicality and a love for dance were what she prized above all else.

Tucker can’t resist slipping into her office at the end of the day, where she’s bent over her desk doing paperwork. She barely looks up from her work, throwing Tucker a distracted smile as he plops into the chair across from her. “Whatcha doing?”

“Working, Tucker. Is there something you need?”

“Nah…” Tucker trails off into silence as he watches her. "Sooo....I met Wash today."

Vanessa brightens at that, glancing up from her work. "Oh, good!"

"He was in my class," Tucker says, fidgeting when Vanessa just continues to smile at him. "He...well, he was a little awkward."

To his surprise, she laughs. "Oh, I know, but—trust me, Tucker. He's an _incredible_ dancer."

" _Really?_ "

"Really,” she says briskly. "I cried during the audition portion of his interview."

Tucker stares. "You...you _cried?_ During his _audition?_ "

"It was....well. It was really rather lovely."

Christ, she looks like she's about to start crying _now_ . “You didn’t cry during _my_ audition.”

She gives him a look. “You danced to “Starships” by Nicki Minaj, Tucker.”

“And?”

 _“And_ , there were no tears, it’s true, but the entire studio fell in love with you in the span of a three and a half minute song. You’ll _also_ remember that I hired you on the spot, to thunderous applause.”

Tucker grins at the memory. “Yeah. Well. So, uh. _Anyway_. He’s teaching pole and a flow class?”

“Precisely,” she says briskly. “His specialties are modern and pole, just like yours. I think the two of you can learn a lot from each other, actually.”

“Hmm,” Tucker says, leaning back in his chair. He thinks of the way that Wash had literally tripped and taken out two other students in his class this afternoon, then tries to imagine Vanessa Kimball crying during an audition. “Well, we’ll see.”

* * *

Except he _doesn’t_ see. He takes a couple of Wash’s advanced pole skills classes, half to make the guy feel welcome, half out of curiosity. He _does_ leave with several impressive new skills and a healthy, fearful appreciation for Wash’s insane conditioning drills, but he still doesn’t quite look at Wash and think, _dancer_ . Incredible athlete, _yes._ Great teacher, sure. Hottie with a body, no arguments there. But dancer? The kind of dancer that brings Vanessa to tears?

It’s a mystery.

Tucker even takes one of Wash’s flow classes, an act which he regrets the second Wash finishes their warm-up and says, “I thought we’d work on our freestyle today, using the _elements_ as a theme.”

Wash’s students nod enthusiastically in perfect understanding—Tucker will give Wash that, he’s managed to amass a nearly cult-like following in the four weeks that he’s been here—and scatter to claim a pole. “So,” Wash continues, “we’ll all select a pole —feel free to use the apparatus as much or as little as you like—and I’ll put on some music and call out an element. Fire, air, earth, water—your job is to dance, while trying to channel however that element makes you feel.”

Tucker hastily tries to wipe the deer-in-headlights look off of his face as Wash glances around at them all with a smile. “Uh,” he asks, when it appears that no one else is going to do so. “Uh, I don’t, really. Get it?”

“So—for example….” Wash scrolls through his phone for a minute, placing it on the floor as a song begins to play. “Say I pick this song and say, water. You’re all going to dance like water.”

“But…” Tucker hesitates. He cannot for the life of him figure out why no one else appears confused. “But, uh. What does that _mean?_ ”

He’s incredibly grateful when Wash doesn’t look at him like he’s an idiot, just smiles brightly. “It can mean something different to everyone! Katie—what does water make you think of?”

Katie Jensen hums thoughtfully, blowing her bangs out of her face. “Uh—well, my uncle used to have this beach house we’d visit every summer…so…I guess it makes me think of sunshine, and summer.”

“That’s great!” Wash glances around at all of them. “So, Katie might try to bring an element of freedom and fun into her dance. Whereas to someone else, water may make them think of something totally different. Tex? What does water make you think of?”

Tucker follows his gaze to see Tex grinning at them, upside down in a handstand at the back of the room. “Sex.”

Wash doesn’t blink, even as Tucker stares at her incredulously. “There you go. Water makes Tex think of sex, so her dance will look very different than Katie’s.” Wash grabs his phone, pausing the song and scrolling once more. “Why don’t we start with water, then? I’ll pick a new song and we’ll begin.”

“Wait,” Tucker says, as Wash heads towards the sound system. He realizes he’s clutching the pole in front of him with both hands, and forces his arms to swing casually at his sides. “We just, go? We’re not doing any choreography first?”

“Nope!” Wash says cheerfully. “Just do whatever feels natural, Tucker. You’ll be great.”

“Right,” Tucker finally says, staring at the space where Wash stood as he leaves for the speaker. _“Riiiiight_.”

The music begins to play and Tucker stares in horror as everyone in the room begins to move. Even Tex, who Tucker would’ve pegged to be the _first_ to call this exercise silly, is halfway up the pole with a blissed-out look on her face. Tucker can’t just stand here like an asshole—he’s an _instructor,_ for fuck’s sake, and his _students_ are in this class—so he forces himself to walk a slow circle around the pole and breathe. He feels jittery and unfocused, neither of which he’s used to feeling within these walls. Dance normally makes him feel light and airy, but he needs… _needs_ some time to think, to choreograph, to learn the eight-count—does this song even _have_ an eight count? He’s pretty sure Wash picked a song with a _six-count,_ the fucker. Who picks a song with a six count for a freestyle exercise, of all things?

“Just keep moving,” Wash calls across the room. “Don’t overthink it, just—move like water, whatever that means to you.”

Tucker realizes with a flush that nearly a minute has gone by and he’s done little more than walk awkwardly around the pole. He gives himself a little shake and tries to focus, drawing on little snippets of previous routines he’s choreographed, but none of them seem to fit together. When the song finally ends, he wilts in relief against the pole.

“Great job, everyone,” Wash says. “Britton, that was gorgeous—do you want to tell us what your dance was about?”

Britton descends from the pole, accepting a hug from Katie before launching into a story about how she almost drowned as a child, and worked to overcome a lifelong fear of water. By the time she’s done, even Tex looks touched, and Wash gives her a brief hug. “Thank you for sharing that with us, BB.”

Tucker’s heart sinks as Wash picks up his Ipod again. “Now—how about we do fire, next?” He casts his gaze around the room. “Tucker. What does fire make you think of?”

“Uh.” Tucker swallows. “I guess…um. Roasting marshmallows?”

He’s beyond grateful when Wash doesn’t press him further or, even worse, laugh, but Tucker still doesn’t have any fucking clue how to dance to _“the mood”_ of roasting marshmallows or whatever. There’s a very large part of him that wants to walk right out of this class, but he’s not a quitter, and he would never be able to look his students in the eye after that. Besides, Wash had suffered through over a half dozen of Tucker’s own classes by now, so he marches back over to the pole and tries to think about roasting marshmallows with his son while he dances.

It’s the longest, most frustrating dance class Tucker’s had in a long time. He’s pretty sure by the end of the evening that he’s an even worse dancer than before, but he _does_ get what he came there for. There’s a moment, when they cycle back to water, that he glances across the room to see Wash demonstrating a bit of flow for Britton. His movements are simple, but there’s a lightness to them that Tucker hasn’t yet seen from Wash, and more to the point, his body is loose and limber and liquid, like..like…

Like _water_.

For the briefest of moments, Tucker _gets_ it: gets how one could dance like water, gets how Wash is a dancer, gets how the lines of this man’s body reduced his studio owner to tears. There’s something, in the arch of his neck and the gentle curving of his wrists, that makes Tucker’s breath catch, and he thinks, _oh_.

But then it’s gone, Wash straightening up and stepping away from the pole. He catches Tucker’s eye across the studio, and Tucker turns away, flushing. He can’t help thinking that he just witnessed something incredibly private, even though Wash was demonstrating freely for all of them to see.

Tucker knows that he should stay when the class ends and say something polite to Wash after— _good class, thanks man, learned a lot_ —but he just can’t do it. He throws his towel and water bottle into his bag, shoves his sneakers on, and books it straight into the locker room to shower.

Tucker stands under the hot water spray and listens to the other students filing in and chatting away excitedly about the class. It makes him feel oddly jealous, which is ridiculous—he knows he’s one of the studio’s most popular instructors, and that his students love him—but more than anything, he feels guilty. Just because he was bad at something didn’t mean he had to be a dick about Wash’s classes and run off after. He should have offered to help clean up or something, the way Wash did at the end of all of Tucker’s classes. Which he’d attended faithfully, without a word of complaint, despite the fact that he was a total mess.

His mind made up, Tucker towels off and dresses hastily, heading back to the studio. It’s been at least twenty minutes since the class ended, so he’s surprised to hear music, _blue_ music, drifting out from the room, pulling him closer like a magnet. The lights have been dimmed slightly, and something makes Tucker slow down as he approaches, poking just his head around the door frame to peer into the studio.

Wash is dancing alone in the studio, one of the songs he’d had them freestyle to earlier filtering through the speakers. _The air song,_ Tucker recalls dimly, but even if he hadn’t been in the class he’d know that that’s what Wash is going for. Wash isn’t using the poles, but his body appears weightless even on the ground, floating around the studio like a summer breeze. He twirls his arms and Tucker thinks _wind_ ; he sways his hips and Tucker thinks _hurricane_ . He moves with an aching, desperate sweetness that makes Tucker think _breath_ , and by the time Wash has finished moving, Tucker _gets it_.

He’s magic.

Tucker thinks that he should like, move away before the song ends, give Wash some privacy, but he’s dumbstruck, frozen in the doorway of the studio. He jolts only when Wash catches his eye, in the middle of flipping open the straw on his water bottle. “S-sorry,” Tucker mumbles. He glances behind him, unsure of if he should leave or not. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay!” Wash takes a swig of water and gestures him inside. “Sorry, I didn’t even see you.”

“Oh…” Tucker takes a few steps inside the studio, hesitating. “You’re not….?”

 _Embarrassed?_ Tucker wants to say but doesn’t, because holy hell, he can’t even imagine someone catching him dancing like that. “How much of that did you have choreographed?”

“Oh, none of it,” Wash says, waving a hand. “I was just playing around. Don’t you ever do that?”

“I mean… _yeah_ , but not like…not like _that_.”

“It’s kind of how I put stuff together,” Wash says. He waves his phone a little. “I put on a song, and just move to it, and I record it to see what works and what doesn’t. There’s usually some good stuff in the mess.”

“Man, I gotta like…break it down, you know? By the counts and shit.”

“I _do_ know,” Wash says. He laughs when Tucker lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “I swear! I know counts. I, uh. I used to be a gymnast.”

“Shit, really?”

“Really. I made it up to the Olympic trials, actually.”

“ _Damn._ I mean, I’m not surprised you were a gymnast because hello, _arms,_ ” Tucker says, because apparently he has no control over his mouth, “but, uh. What are you doing _here_ , then? I mean, I love Chorus, but our little studio isn’t exactly the Olympics.”

He can tell he’s said the wrong thing immediately. The smile slides off of Wash’s face, his shoulders stiffening. After a few moments of awkward silence, he clears his throat. “It was time for a change,” he says mechanically, in a way that makes Tucker certain he’s said that exact line over and over again.

“Yeah, no,” Tucker says quickly. “I get that.”

Wash nods, his relief that Tucker isn’t pressing further a nearly tangible thing. “I like teaching,” he says, his expression clearing somewhat. “It feels good.”

“Right? It’s like, when my students nail a combo I just…” Tucker slaps a hand over his heart, beaming. “It fucking _gets_ me, you know?”

“I do,” Wash says. He smiles at Tucker and Tucker blinks a little because _shit_ , it’s a nice smile. Like, a really, _really_ nice smile. Goddammit.

“Hey, so uh….that was a good class,” Tucker says quickly, before he does something stupid like try to kiss the dimples in Wash’s cheeks. “Glad I came.”

The dimples on his cheeks deepen. “Thanks! I’m glad you came. You did well.”

Tucker gives him a look. “Dude. I sucked.”

“You didn’t suck,” Wash says insistently. “You just found a weak point in your dance, is all. And you stayed, didn’t you? You stayed and tried.”

“Yeah…yeah, I guess.” Tucker folds his arms across his chest. “Huh. Guess Kimball was right.”

“Right about what?”

“She said that you and I could probably learn a lot from each other.” Tucker shrugs. “Guess I see what she meant now.”

Wash gives him an appraising look. “I think she’s right, too. Does that mean you’ll be back?”

“I’ll keep going to your classes if you keep going to mine.”

“Deal,” Wash says, and when he sticks out his hand, they shake.

Tucker grins the whole way home.

* * *

It isn’t easy, although Tucker really, _really_ wants it to be. He’d been hoping that seeing Wash freestyle would be the catalyst, that it would unlock something inside of him and he’d be able to move like wind, too. It certainly fills Tucker with a fresh sense of determination, but his mind still goes blank when asked to perform on the spot. The only consolation is that Wash is still struggling as well: during a particularly tricky piece of choreography in Tucker’s class, he literally starts knocking his forehead against the floor in frustration.

“Stop,” Tucker laughs. He winds a hand gently in Wash’s hair and tugs his head up off the ground. “Dude. Come on, you got this. It’s a shoulder roll on _five, six, seven, eight,_ pop the leg on _one_ , twirl to a stand on—”

“I _knooow_ ,” Wash groans. He peeks an eye at Tucker. “Can you do it again? It looks amazing when _you_ do it.”

“I’ve already done it like, twenty times,” Tucker says, but he can’t stop the stupid smile from spreading across his face, so he demonstrates the combo again and Wash watches him closely. “See? Just listen to the count.”

“Hmmm,” Wash says. “Can I do a different roll?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Tucker has to bite back a grin when Wash pouts at him. “’Cause that’s not the choreography! You’re doing a group routine, you can’t just fly solo. Gotta move together, ya know?”

“ _Oooh_ , Tucker,” Katie pipes up. “Which arm comes up first, the left or the right?”

“The right,” Tucker says, moving over to help her, but not before he catches the way Wash is smiling at him. By the time class has ended, Wash has managed to move in sync with everyone else for three whole combos in a row, so Tucker’s going to call that a win. Wash looks pretty pleased as well, and accepts the high five Carolina slaps him on the way out the door with a smile.

“I’m getting there, right?” he asks Tucker cautiously, when the room has mostly emptied.

“You’re _so_ getting there.” Tucker says, and then pauses. “Hey, I was gonna stay and work out a bit if you wanna hang? We’ve got two hours until the next class is in this room.”

Wash smiles at him. “That sounds fun.”

It _is_ fun. Tucker’s always loved this, just playing around in the studio with a few other instructors. Wash puts on some music and Tucker begrudgingly joins him for what Wash calls a _second warm-up_ and Tucker calls _full-on conditioning_.

“Dude,” he pants from where he’s lying on the floor. “You call that a warm-up?!”

Wash is already halfway up the pole, lost in his own world and barely winded. Tucker rolls his eyes and joins him. It’s nice, the two of them doing their own thing, occasionally sharing moves or snapping a picture for the other. Towards the end of their impromptu training session, Tucker leans against the wall and watches Wash dance aimlessly around the studio. “I still don’t get how you do that. Just...turn your _brain_ off like that.”

Wash stops dancing and regards him thoughtfully. “It’s hard to explain,” he says slowly. “It feels like…like dancing is the only time I _do_ turn my brain off.”

“But _how?_ ”

Wash stares at him in such serious consideration that Tucker can’t help but fidget under the scrutiny. “Why don’t you let me show you?” he finally asks.

“I’ve _seen_ you dance, Wash. I mean, by all means, I’m not gonna say _no_ if you want to put on a show, but—”

“No no,” Wash says. “I mean…come dance _with_ me.”

Tucker stares at him. “Dance…. _with_ you? What, you mean like, freestyle?”

“Exactly.”

“But…dude, I can barely freestyle with my _own_ self. How does that even work with two people?!”

“We pick a song,” Wash says patiently, “and move to it. We’ll even pick something we both know, so that it’s familiar.”

Tucker’s already shaking his head. “Yeah, no way.”

“Aw, come on,” Wash says with a grin. “Just try it!”

“I’ll mess it up,” Tucker mumbles. “I totally will—”

“No, you won’t,” Wash says, “because there’s nothing _to_ mess up.”

They stare each other down, and Tucker hesitates. “I don’t know…”

“You can do it, Tucker,” Wash says. “Here, look, we won’t even use the mirrors—”

He crosses the studio, dimming the lights until they can only really make out each other, and holds out a hand to Tucker. “Come dance with me.”

It’s so endearingly cheesy that Tucker can’t resist. He grabs Wash’s hand and takes the Ipod Wash hands him uncertainly, scrolling through the songs. “Can we do a blue song?”

If Wash is confused by that statement, he doesn’t show it. “We can do whatever you want.”

“How about….oh, you know “Downtown?’” Tucker angles the Ipod so Wash can see. “By Majical Cloudz? I’ve been feeling this lately.”

“Perfect,” Wash says, and snatches the Ipod away to go plug it into the speakers.

Tucker’s doubts return as Wash leaves, and he jumps a little as the  music blasts through the speakers. “Just gonna play the last few seconds of the song before it,” Wash calls, and makes his way back to Tucker.

Tucker nods absently, trying to shake off the jitters. This was _stupid._ He’s gonna look so stupid next to Wash, trying to keep up with _that_ —how the fuck is he supposed to freestyle with another person, anyway? Won’t they smash into each other? How is it going to _match?_ He’s gonna look so _dumb—_

Tucker gasps, actually _gasps_ , when he feels Wash’s arms encircle him from behind, feels Wash’s nose nuzzling at his neck. “Get out of your head,” Wash whispers, and Tucker closes his eyes as the song begins.

Wash starts to move them, bending at the waist and dipping in long, slow circles and it—it _is_ easier, like this, Wash’s body pressed warm against his own. He breathes through it, lets Wash lead for a while, lets the cool, soothing blue notes soak into his bones. Wash twirls away and it feels only natural to mirror the movement, spinning to the left while Wash spins to the right. There’s a moment of hesitation and Tucker thinks, _fuck it_ , _just keep spinning,_ and he does, loops and swirls until Wash catches up with him.

It feels less like a dance and more like a story, the way they move together. Wash follows him round and round, and when he lifts Tucker up, Tucker doesn’t tense, just lets Wash twirl him through the air and catch him, because _of course_ Wash is going to catch him, he knows _exactly_ where Wash is going to be when he lands. There’s something, _something_ about the dark of the studio and the blue of the music and the feeling of another body moving with his, something that makes Tucker soften and sink into the dance, deeper than he’s ever gone in a freestyle before. It’s messy. It’s messy and raw and at one point he and Wash nearly run into each other, but Wash grins and turns it into a controlled fall instead, and Tucker goes with it. It’s part of the story, after all, that they both fall and get back up. Part of the dance.

The song ends with them wrapped up in each other’s arms, Wash gently brushing his hair out of his face as he dips Tucker back. Wash’s eyes are so blue, as blue as the song that was just playing, and his arms are so strong and Tucker blinks dazedly and says, “Can we do another one?”

The studio is suddenly filled with such noise that Tucker startles, because he doesn’t even know where the fuck he _is_ right now. They straighten and look around and Tucker realizes, with a thrill of horror, that the studio is filled with people waiting to attend the next class, and every single one of them is clapping.

“What the _fuck,_ ” Tucker whispers fearfully, still clutching at Wash. “What the— _oof_!”

He lets go of Wash as Kai, the hip hop instructor for the next class, throws herself into his arms. “Oh, Tucker! That was _sooo_ beautiful!”

“Uh...thanks,” he mutters, patting her awkwardly on the back. For some reason, he can’t quite meet Wash’s eye. “We were just...playing around, it wasn’t polished or anything…”

“It was _magical_ ,” she says solemnly, untangling herself from his arms. She eyes Wash up and down appreciatively. “Those were some moves, Freckles. Can I be next?”

Wash flushes a little, but Tucker can tell he’s pleased and he can’t decide how he feels about it. “Sure, why not. Think you can keep up?”

“ _Can_ I--” Kai stops speaking, eyes wide as she slams her palm into Tucker’s chest. “Oh my god! _Ohmygod,_ Tucker, do you realize what this _means?_ ”

“Uh oh,” Tucker says warily, rubbing at his chest.. “I know that look—”

“You two have to enter the PSO competition in the spring with a doubles routine!”

Tucker laughs. It takes him a moment to realize he’s the only one doing so. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious!” she says impatiently. “You two have like, Tex and Carolina levels of performance chemistry!”

“Ugh,” Tex grunts from across the room where she’s stretching in preparation for Kai’s class, then pauses. “Well, now. Let’s not go that far.”

Kai waves a dismissive hand at her, gripping the front of Wash’s shirt. _“Waaaash_. You guys have to.”

“I…” Tucker can hear the hesitation in his voice. “I’ve never done a pole competition before.”

“Neither has Tucker, but he’s always wanted to!”

“ _Kai!_ ” Tucker hisses. Now he really can’t meet Wash’s eye. “I haven’t _always_ wanted to.”

“Ohmygod, yes you _have!_ Like, since _forever!_ You guys should totally do it!”

“Don’t you have…” Tucker glances up to see that her entire class is still staring at them. Jesus Christ. “Shouldn’t you be starting your class?”

“Yeah, but this is important,” Kai says, glancing around at all of them. “Right guys?”

“ _So_ important,” Tex says in mock-seriousness, grinning at Tucker.

Tucker glares at her, then throws a half-glance at Wash. “Okay, this is stupid. Besides, you heard Wash, he doesn’t want to do a pole competition.”

“I never said I didn’t want to,” Wash says. “Only that I hadn’t done one before.”

“ _Do_ you want to?”

“Do _you?_ ”

“I…” Tucker glances around. “Look, can we...talk about this over here?”

He drags Wash off to the side, throwing a pleading look at Kai. With a pout, she puts some music on and begins leading her class in a warm-up while Tucker and Wash stare at each other. “Well?” Wash asks. “ _Do_ you want to do a competition?”

“I...don’t know,” Tucker mumbles. “I...I mean okay, I have thought about doing one before, but…I don’t know, it’s stupid.”

“It’s _not_ stupid,” Wash says firmly, “And I think you should. Unless you’d rather do a solo—I could help you prepare for one, if you like. I’ve done gymnastics competitions before, so--”

“No,” Tucker says quickly. “I mean, uh. I want...to dance with you. If you want. It sounds fun, but like, we don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“Are you sure? We have like, totally different styles of choreography.” Tucker grins. “This means you have to actually _do_ some choreography, dude.”

“I’m regretting it already,” Wash says jokingly. He pats Tucker on the shoulder so fondly that it makes Tucker blush. _Blush._ From a _shoulder_ pat. God, he needs to pull it together.

“Well, shit, I guess we’re doing this then,” Tucker says. He catches sight of Kai craning her neck across the studio, and gives her a thumbs up. She beams at him, and Tucker pulls out his phone. “Guess I’ll tell Kimball we’ll be entering, then?”

“Sounds good.” Wash picks up his gym bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Want to start practicing tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “See you tomorrow, partner.”

Wash gives him another one of those dorky shoulder pats. “See you then... _partner_.”

Tucker dances the whole way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //SWINGS IN ON A ROPE YODELING AND WAVING FIC
> 
> hello friends! so this is a fun, completely self-indulgent AU i've had bouncing around in my head for a while, ever since my rockstar beta [melissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMax/pseuds/MiniMax) and i started chatting about a dance/circus AU. there's no real longfic-type plot here, or any promise of an update schedule, but i will be popping in to write fun little ficlets in this verse (and you may see her doing the same!) i wanted a low-pressure (and did i mention self-indulgent) world i could play in when i needed a break from original content, so here we are. i hope you enjoy! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the original plan was to have every fic in this series be a random one shot, but i decided to make this chapter two of sky because 1) it follows along tucker and wash's plotline and 2) it's literally just pure, nonsensical, self-indulgent fluff that doesn't really merit its own fic. i needed to write something inconsequential after Nanowrimo Hell, and apparently this was the result. thanks for reading!

Wash can’t stop smiling.

He smiles the rest of the night after agreeing to enter the PSO competition with Tucker— through the train ride home, through brushing his teeth, through falling asleep that night grinning stupidly into his pillow. He beams at his coffee pot the next morning while it brews and has to bite back a smile during his morning errands. It’s a little annoying, actually—people keep doing double takes or asking him what’s so funny, and his cheeks are starting to hurt, but he doesn’t care. He gets to dance with Lavernius Tucker again.

It takes him a little while to work out why exactly he feels as if he’s on cloud nine. At first he thinks it’s the massive, dorky crush he has on Tucker, but he’s had massive, dorky crushes before—has even gotten to _dance_ with said crushes before. Then he thinks it might be because Tucker is one of the most skilled dancers he’s ever seen, and who _wouldn_ _’t_ want to do a duet with someone like him? That one feels closer, but still not quite right.

Around mid-day, Wash realizes that the reason for his giddy excitement is that he’s never met someone so…so desperately in love with dancing as Tucker. It’s contagious, the passion he feels for the simple, glorious act of movement. Tucker is the kind of dancer that makes people walk into walls, the dancer one’s eye is inexplicably drawn to during a group routine. Every single one of his classes is constantly booked out, and Wash had almost dropped his phone when he’d seen Tucker’s sheer number of Instagram followers. His love for the art is a magical, precious thing, that makes Wash feeling oddly protective. He knows how much Tucker loves to perform, how he simply shines when the spotlight is on him. Wash also knows firsthand how competition could be the start of a new, wonderful chapter in one’s dance career—or how it could be the beginning of the end.

He will not let the latter happen to Tucker over the course of this competition.

They had agreed to meet at the studio the next evening for an informal first practice session, to try to pick out their song and get a rough feel for their piece. Wash already has a playlist of options loaded onto his phone although really, he doesn’t have much opinion on what they danced to. After his rigorous gymnastics days, Wash has played around with dancing to all sorts of music. As long as it moved something inside of him, he doesn’t care what it is.

He arrives at the studio almost two hours early, intent on working on some combo ideas and just soaking in the energy of the place. Chorus had that effect: Wash found himself constantly lingering at the studio, whether to chat with other instructors, or take an impromptu class, or simply join the crowd of people constantly lounging around stretching in various locations because they too were reluctant to leave.

Vanessa Kimball’s office is dark today, and the only class going on is Kai’s Sunday Stretch. Calming music filters out of the dimly lit studio, and Wash bypasses it for the aerial and pole section. This part of the studio is huge, with poles on one side and the aerial acrobatic equipment on the other, with a divider that could be drawn down the middle in the event that they wanted to run two classes at once.

The divider is currently tucked away into the wall, and the only person in the studio is Tex, wrapped in the aerial silks halfway up to the ceiling. He gives her a quick wave and starts on his own workout. It’s easy and quiet, the two of them focused on their own work while Kai’s voice occasionally drifts in from the other room. When her class lets out, Wash puts on some music of his own and loses himself from a while in some freestyle.

By the time he comes back down to Earth, the two hours have passed. Tex catches his eye from where she’s executing some complicated looking split, and she frowns at him. “What does this look like?”

Wash shrugs a little. The silks are a mystery to him. “It looks fine—want a pic?’

He snaps one with his cell phone and holds it out to Tex as she comes over, regarding it critically. “Looks better than fine,” she says eventually, handing it back. “Send that to me?”

Wash rolls his eyes and texts her the picture, watching her climb back up the silks once more. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Practicing with Tucker,” Wash says. He cranes his neck to look at the clock on the wall, frowning. “We were supposed to meet at five, actually...shouldn’t Tucker be here by now?”

“It’s _barely_ five o’clock,” Tex calls from fifteen feet up in the air, brow furrowed as she works out another particularly difficult-looking wrap on the silks. “He probably just had to stay late with one of his kids.”

It takes a moment for the details of that statement to sink in, and when it does, Wash gives her his full attention. “Wait, kids? Tucker has more than one kid?”

“No,” Tex says absently. She’s upside-down now, crossing the fabric behind her back. “Junior’s his only kid. Tucker teaches all-boys ballet class twice a week at the studio down the road.”

Wash stares at her. “Tucker teaches ballet. To a bunch of a little kids. Twice a week.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, Washington.”

The scene explodes in Wash’s mind in vivid, full-color detail: Tucker, dreads piled high in a neat ballet bun, beaming as he walks a group of adoring five-year-olds through across-the-floor drills. The massive, dorky crush returns with a vengeance, slamming him in the face with all the subtlety of a bag of bricks. “Oh my god. I am so fucked.”

Tex finally executes the drop, twisting down from the ceiling in a blur of blonde and blue. She shakes the fabric off of her shoulders, staring at Wash. “Huh? Are you high or something?”

“Why is he single?” Wash blurts. He stares at Tex. Tex stares back. The seconds tick by, each of them painfully awkward, as Wash desperately hopes that a rogue meteor will land on the studio and save him from this self-imposed hell. It does not. “I...never mind.”

“ _Ohhh_ no,” Tex says, her face cracking into a grin. She reaches for her water bottle, popping the straw up in an ominous sort of way. “Sounds like someone has a _cruuuuush_.”

“I do not,” Wash huffs. He does. He so does. “ _You_...have a crush.”

Tex makes a face. “I have a _boyfriend_. Don’t make it gross.”

“I was only saying,” Wash says, striving for casual this time. “Tucker seems like a really great guy—”

“A _really great guy?_ That what the kids are calling it these days—”

“—and he—shut up—has so many friends and I. I was just wondering why he was. Single. Which,” Wash says, suddenly panicky, “I know there’s a lot of reasons someone could be single, and that’s really none of my business. Tucker can be single. _So_ single. He can be as single as he wants—”

“Oh my god,” Tex groans, looking at him in dismay. “Will you give it a rest? Geez, teasing you isn’t even any fun. I have no idea why Tucker is single. Go ask Church.”

Wash gives her a look. “Really. You think Church is going to know that?”

“You kidding me? Those two gossip like a pair of old ladies.” The evil glint is back in her eyes now, as she saunters over to the silks once more. “You know, now that I think of it, I _do_ seem to remember your name coming up during their last margarita madness night, or whatever.”

“No it didn’t,” Wash says quickly, as Tex begins climbing. “It didn’t—did it? What did they say?”

She grins at him. “Thought you didn’t care.”

“I hate you,” Wash grumbles. He’s sorely tempted to casually let drop how he overheard Church agonizing to Grif last week at the bar about how _“I don’t know man, Tex just doesn’t seem like a ring girl, but I guess I want to make her my wife or whatever,”_ but he resists. He’s just started warming up again on his own when Carolina breezes into the studio, tying her hair up in a ponytail.

“Sorry I’m late,” she calls to Tex. “Traffic was a bitch.”

Carolina drops her bag and joins Wash in warming up, as Tex executes another drop and heads over to them. “Hurry up, I wanna try this new move.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Carolina says, making a face at her. “You been here long?”

“Been hanging out here for a while. You didn’t miss anything except Wash pining over Tucker.”

Wash widens his eyes at her, but Carolina doesn’t appear phased. “Well, that’s nothing new.”

“True,” Tex concedes. “He found out Tucker teaches ballet to those kids down the road and almost ran off to propose on the spot.”

Carolina laughs far louder than Wash thinks Tex’s witty quip really called for. He folds his arms across his chest, glaring at her. “I’m sorry, but didn’t you walk into a wall when Vanessa showed you her costume for the showcase last week?”

“She startled me!” Carolina exclaims. She huffs, whacking a snickering Tex upside the head. “Who just walks out of the dressing room in an outfit like that?! I wasn’t prepared—“

“ _You_ do,” Wash says earnestly. “ _You_ walk out of the dressing room in outfits like that. _Why_ you’re startled when someone else does it is beyond me—“

“She’s _really pretty_ ,” Carolina mutters, and Wash raises an eyebrow.

“Since when do you get flustered around pretty girls?”

Carolina’s spine stiffens a little, and she turns abruptly, beginning a quick jog around the studio. “Since this particular pretty girl met me in less than desirable circumstances.”

Wash glances at Tex, who makes a face at him.  _What did I do?_ he mouths, and she rolls her eyes. “Carolina, come on. Let’s finish our workout so we can watch the proposal when Tucker arrives.”

“Sounds like Church and Tucker aren’t the only ones who gossip like old ladies,” Wash grumps at them, then, ignoring their snickers, gets to work on his combos once more.

* * *

 

It’s almost forty-five minutes later when Tucker walks in the door, looking frazzled. He makes a beeline for Wash, dumping his back-pack on the floor and rifling through it. “Ah, sorry, man—my fucking phone died—“

He unearths his phone, plugging the charger against the wall and leans against the mirror, looking exhausted. “Everything okay?”

“Mmm? Oh, yeah—one of my kids, his fucking dad was late picking him up, _again_. All good though, he got there eventually.” Tucker pauses. “It’s not his fault, really. He’s a single dad and fucking tries.”

“Tex told me you teach ballet down the road,” Wash says, striving for casual. “I bet that’s really rewarding.”

The exhaustion leaves Tucker’s face at once, and he beams up at Wash. “Aw, I love it—I mean, it’s hard and sometimes the kids are little shits, but I really love it. ‘Specially since they’re all little dudes. Wish I’d had something like that when I was growing up.”

Tucker laughs a little, standing abruptly. “Don’t get me started though, I’ll talk about those kids forever.”

“I’d love to hear about it,” Wash says.

Tucker ducks his head a little, and Wash has to resist the urge to duck his hair back behind his shoulder. “That’s cool of you. Let’s, uh—we should probably get this workout done first though, I’ve kept you waiting long enough.”

 _I_ _’d wait forever for you,_ Wash thinks, then gives himself a hard mental slap. He needs to get a grip. He’s only known Tucker for about two months now—there’s no possible way he could’ve fallen this hard already. Besides, they were supposed to be dance partners, for a competition that meant a lot to Tucker. Wash was _not_ going to make this weird. “Music,” he blurts intelligently, thrusting his phone at Tucker. “I picked out some songs. Want to see?”

“Ooh, nice,” Tucker says absently, scrolling through the list. “I know most of these, we must have similar taste.”

“I don’t really care what we dance to,” Wash says. “You pick. Whatever you want.”

“Alright…what about this one?”

Wash grins as Tucker turns the phone towards him. “I like that one,” he says, standing. “So, why don’t we—“

“Try to choreograph the first thirty seconds,” Tucker says, at the same time that Wash says, “freestyle and see how the song feels.”

They eye each other, then laugh a little. “How about both?” Wash says. “Freestyle, then try something more structured?”

Tucker makes a face, but nods. “Alright...I guess that works.”

He throws a self-conscious glance towards the other side of the studio, but Tex and Carolina are currently wrapped up in the silks, with Tex holding Carolina by only her foot. “They’re not paying attention to us,” Wash says lowly, and Tucker jolts a little.

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I wouldn’t care if they were. Put the song on?”

His tone is nonchalant, but he’s swinging his arms back and forth in a rather anxious way. Wash presses play on his phone, and the music begins.

It’s nothing like the first time they danced together, in that magical, dimly lit studio when Tucker moved like water in his arms. Tucker is utterly distracted now, glancing constantly across the room and in the mirror. His anxiety is so apparent that even Wash is finding it difficult to sink into the song, and when it’s over, Tucker looks incredibly relieved.

“I think it’s safe to say that one is a no,” Wash jokes, making to switch the song. “How about we try—“

“What? No, wait,” Tucker protests. “Hang on, let me see if I can do something with it.”

Wash tries not to make a face, but he doesn’t entirely succeed as Tucker puts his hands on his hips, glaring at him. “Hey, we said we’d try both of our ways!”

“Alright, alright,” he says with a sigh. “Should I…should I help, or…?”

“Just hang on a minute,” Tucker mutters, his eyes already far away. Wash steps back a little and watches as Tucker takes the phone, presses play, and stands stock still for the first fifteen seconds of the song, at which point he restarts it and listens again. And again. And again, and again, until—

“Um,” Wash says, and Tucker flaps a hand at him in agitation.

Tucker finally begins to move a little, muttering the eight-count under his breath. His movements get larger and larger, until it appears that he has those first fifteen seconds choreographed.

“Okay,” he says, glancing up at Wash as if he hadn’t been standing there watching the whole time. “How about this?”

Wash watches as Tucker shows him the—admittedly very pretty—bit of the song he’d choreographed. “It’s nice,” Wash says slowly, “I just, I don’t know if I’m feeling this song.”

“You just said you didn’t care what song we picked!”

“Well, I don’t, but I have still have to _connect_ with it.”

“You haven’t _tried_ to connect with it,” Tucker said testily.

“Yes, I did. I tried dancing to it.”

“Once! So, what, you know after one run through if you like it or not?”

Wash stares at him. “You don’t?”

They eye each other, then both grin a little. “Alright, alright,” Tucker says. “Let’s just…try it again? How about we pick a song, and you try it your way, and I try it my way?”

Wash nods, peering over Tucker’s shoulder at the phone. “How about that one?”

This time, Wash freestyles to the song, while Tucker pulls it up on his own phone and tries to work out the beginning. It’s a song Wash has always loved, and he loses himself in the music. By the time he finishes, Tucker is shaking his head and frowning. “I don’t like it. I mean, you looked fucking majestic, but I can’t choreograph to this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not…” Tucker makes a series of choppy movements with his hands. “Syncopated. It’s not syncopated enough.”

“You choreograph to songs that aren’t syncopated all the time in your classes,” Wash reminds him patiently.

“I know, but that’s when I’m feeling like, a silver song or something. I want it to be blue, and blue is syncopated. Sometimes. Like, you know. Like thunder.”

Wash hasn’t the faintest clue what he just said, but it sounds like sheer poetry and he’s absolutely, one hundred percent fucked. “Okay,” he says. “Like thunder. Let’s…try again?”

Five songs later, they’re both leaning against the mirrors in a disgruntled sort of way. “Fuck,” Tucker says with feeling, and Wash is inclined to agree. It doesn’t help that Tex and Carolina are moving in perfect unison to their routine across the studio. “Show-offs,” Tucker mutters, and Wash bites back a grin.

“We’ve been here almost an hour now,” he says, when the grin fades. “Maybe…maybe we should work on some combos we know we want to put in?”

Tucker makes a face. “I don’t know, man….I can’t really dance unless I’ve got the song picked out first.”

“Me neither,” Wash says, and they grin at each other.

“Hey, we agree on something,” Tucker says, nudging him. He sighs. “Man, we were so fucking _magical_ the other day, you know?”

“We were,” Wash says slowly. “Maybe—maybe we’re going about this the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Wash says slowly. “That first time we danced. What was so good about it?”

They both fall silent again. Across the studio, Tex and Carolina are working out a neck hang, Tex’s hands cupped behind the back of Carolina’s skull as Carolina tentatively puts more and more of her weight into Tex’ hands. “There was—” Tucker says abruptly, then cuts himself off, looking embarrassed.

“No no,” Wash says. “What was it?”

Tucker shrugs. “It’s gonna sound stupid, but it felt like there was a…story? Like, we weren’t just dancing, we were telling a _story_. I dunno what it was, but…”

“That’s exactly what it was,” Wash says, excitement creeping into his voice. “We were…telling each other something.”

He suddenly finds it very difficult to look at Tucker, remembering the absolute intimacy of that dance. “Yeah,” Tucker says, and a quick glance confirms that he’s also staring at his hands. “Yeah, we were.”

“So,” Wash says, pulling up his playlist again. “Let’s start there. What do we want to say? And what song is going to convey that?”

The conversation flows much easier after that, with the two of them scrolling through the songs and talking about each one. They’re so immersed in their conversation that they both startle a little when Carolina and Tex are suddenly in front of them. “Have a productive practice?” Tex asks with a smirk. Wash can’t really blame her: they’ve spent over three quarters of it sitting on the floor.

“Yeah,” Tucker says, grinning at Wash. “I think we have our song.”

“Thank goodness,” Tex drawls. “We’re going to the bar, if you want to come.”

“Why not?” Wash says, glancing at Tucker. “I think we deserve a reward.”

* * *

 

As it turns out, the four of them aren’t the only ones going to the bar. Grif, Simmons, and Donut are getting dinner at one of the booths in the corner, and wave them over to take the one next to it. Kai and Church are in what looks to be deep, passionate conversation at the bar, and Wash is just thinking to himself what an odd pairing that is when Tucker stops in his tracks. “Uh-oh.”

Wash looks at him, sliding into the booth. “What’s wrong?”

“I know that look,” Tucker says, sitting next to Wash and still staring at the bar. “That look means nothing good.”

Wash glances at them once more. “Which look? Kai’s or Church’s?”

“Both of them,” Tucker says darkly, then springs back up. “I’ll be right back—you want a drink?”

“Yeah…the….oh, how about the raspberry mojito?”

Tucker tears his eyes away from his friends to stare at Wash. “…Seriously?”

“I like sugar,” Wash says defensively. “The pink drinks always taste the best.”

He tries and fails not to stare at Tucker while he’s at the bar, but at least he’s not the only one. Half the bar casts at least a sidelong glance at Tucker as he saunters across the room and leans across the counter, high-fiving the bartender. Tucker is very good-looking, but Wash thinks it’s more than that: there’s something in the way he moves that irresistibly draws the eye.

“Jesus, Wash, at least try to be subtle.”

Wash startles, turning to see Tex giving him an unimpressed look across the table. “I am,” he says lamely, and determinedly doesn’t look at the bar again until Tucker returns with Church and Kai in tow. They all squeeze into the booth, Kai beaming at them. “ _Sooo?_ How’s the dream team?”

“Great,” Tucker and Carolina say at the same time, then glare at each other.

Tex snickers. “I’m sorry, you think you _and Wash_ are what anyone calls the dream team around here?”

“Alright, _look_ —”

“The dream team,” Tex says serenely, “spent three hours choosing their song and about five minutes actually dancing.”

“Like you two haven’t spent hours dicking around in the studio!” Tucker protests. “We _did_ pick a song, alright—”

Wash sits back and grins, listening to the good-natured teasing. He’s barely half a mojito in, so he can’t blame the warm feeling in his chest on the alcohol. It’s…nice, to sit here like this with his friends, without a thick layer of tension and guilt in the air, that they shouldn’t be out this late, shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, shouldn’t be in bar. He tenses automatically when the door opens and Vanessa Kimball walks in with several of her friends, but she simply waves at them and heads over to the bar.

He glances at Carolina, who is also relaxing back into her seat, and when their eyes meet he knows they’re thinking the same thing: if their old coach had caught his gymnastics team in a bar on a weeknight, he would _not_ have smiled and waved at them.

But he doesn’t want to think about those days now, and he doesn’t want Carolina to, either. He gives her leg a little kick under the table, and she gives him a tiny smile, kicking him back. Tex is currently rummaging in her pockets, dumping their contents out onto the table. “Damn,” she says reproachfully, “I think I left my phone at the studio…”

Church rolls his eyes. “Again?”

“Bite me,” Tex says reproachfully. She lets out an uncharacteristic giggle as Kai leans over and bites at her shoulder. “Ah, there was this video I wanted on there…”

“You need that phone attached to your fucking arm,” Church says, exasperated. “I bought you that little case last week to put all your shit into—”

“…I think I left that at the studio, too…”

“Jesus,” Church sighs.

“You’re gonna have to be more careful when you start wearing jewelry,” Kai tells her, somewhat slyly, as Church very obviously kicks her under the table. “You’d leave it at the studio all the time.”

“Probably,” Tex says absently, then sighs. “Alright, someone else give me their phone and I’ll look the damn video up on Instagram—”

“They make these rings,” Church grunts, and Tex stops talking and stares at him.

“Who makes what now?"

“I don’t know, some stupid company,” says Church, with such an exaggerated shrug that he almost upends his rum and coke. “They make them. Rings. Like, made out of silicone or some shit.”

Silence. Wash casts a side-long glance at Tucker, who has his head buried in his hands. Tex is staring at Church with her eyebrows raised so high they look ready to fly off her head. “Okay—“

“So, yeah,” Church says at the same time. His voice has pitched high, and he makes a frantic grab at his drunk, takes a long gulp, and begins speaking very quickly. “So yeah. I thought silicone could be good, so that way it wouldn’t snag in the silks and you wouldn’t have to take it off and fucking lose it like you lose everything.”

“I do not lose _everything!_ ” Tex protests.

“You lose, like, a lot of shit,” Church scoffs. Another gulp. “But you could wear _this_ all the time. And if you did lose it, I’d just buy you another one, they’re like, twenty bucks.”

“Buy me another what?”

Now Kai has her head in her hands as well, and Tucker has moved on to burying his face in Wash’s shoulder. “I can’t take the awkwardness,” he mutters in a low tone, and Wash beams at the top of his head. Grif, Simmons, and Donut have fallen silent at the next table as well, but Church doesn’t seem to notice, and neither does Tex. They’re both staring at each other: Church looking half-terrified, Tex looking confused.

“Buy you another ring!” Church says, his voice cracking. “Or like, twenty rings! Because they’re made out of fucking silicone and they’re designed for active couples! I don’t know, it’s stupid! If you want a diamond I’ll get you a diamond, but you hate jewelry—“

It finally clicks, and Tex’s eyes widen slightly. “I do hate jewelry,” she says thoughtfully. “Hm. Show me?”

Church pulls out his phone, thrusting it at Tex. “Here.”

She scrolls for a few minutes, sipping her beer thoughtfully. “I like this one.”

“’Course you do,” Church grunts. “Everything you own is black. Should’ve guessed that. What's your size?"

“The fuck should I know?"

"Seven," Kai groans into her hands. "Your ring size is a seven."

Church grunts again. “Guess I should get myself one.”

“Guess you should,” Tex says casually.

“There,” Church says, slamming his phone on the table. “Ordered them. They should be here in two days.”

“Nice,” Tex says, standing and stretching. She leans forward, ruffling his hair a little. “Thanks. Want another drink?”

She leaves the table in utter silence, Church grinning after her. From the other booth, Donut clears his throat. “Ummmmmm…did you two...just...get engaged?”

“I guess,” Church says, still grinning moonily. “ I— _ow!_ ”

He ducks from where Kai is punching him in the shoulder. “ _You—said—you—were—gonna—propose!_ ”

“I _did_ propose!”

“That was _not_ a proposal!” she half-shrieks. “I thought you had a _ring_ —”

“I just ordered them, didn’t I?”

She groans, dropping her head dramatically on the table. “I can’t believe you…”

The conversation turns quickly to Church and Tex’s wedding plans, or lack there of. Somewhere around the time when Kai starts lamenting the fact that she won’t get to plan a bachlorette party, Wash gets up to stretch his legs. He orders two more drinks at the bar—a raspberry mojito, extra sugar for himself, a Manhattan on the rocks for Tucker—and carries them carefully back to the booth, tucking himself in next to Tucker. “So,” he says, sliding the Manhattan over to Tucker, “tell me about your kids.”

Tucker blinks a little in surprise before a slow, wide grin spreads across his face. “Shit dude, thanks. You sure you wanna get me started?”

“Positive,” Wash says with a smile. He clinks his glass against Tucker’s. “I’m all ears.”

Tucker launches into story after story of the kids he teaches. There’s Jordan, who is painfully shy in school but the chattiest kid in Tucker’s class, and Terrence, who always wants to hang off of the barre. There’s Ray and Roger, the twins who are constantly trying to confuse Tucker about which is which, and Pete, who loves across the floor drills but loathes barre work. He tells Wash about the good days, and the ones that make him want to rip his hair out, and by the end Wash has a perfect picture of the studio, and every kid in it. “It’s just really cool,” Tucker finishes, fiddling with his straw. “Like, to see that. To see a bunch of these little dudes dance ballet and not feel weird about it, you know? It would’ve been awesome to have something like that growing up.”

Wash nods sympathetically. “Were you teased a lot?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tucker says, waving a hand with an air of nonchalance that feels very practiced to Wash. “It’s cool, it was a long time ago—kids can just be jerks, you know? It used to bother me a lot, ‘cause what kid likes to get made fun of?”

Ha pauses for a moment, fiddling with the straw in his Manhattan. Wash is about to change the subject when Tucker continues, the words rushing out of him. “I tried to stop, actually. When I was thirteen. I stopped taking classes for about six months. I felt like—“

There’s another long pause, in which Tucker goes very still, his eyes faraway. “I felt like I was dying,” he says abruptly. He laughs a little. “I know that sounds dramatic as _fuck_ , but I...I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. It was...the worst I’ve ever felt. _Ever._ I used to put on my headphones and dance in my room, but...”

“But you started up again?” Wash prompts, and Tucker nods.

“Yeah. None off the bullshit came from my parents,” Tucker says quickly, as if he doesn’t want Wash to get the wrong idea. “They were awesome. I used to dance for my mom on her coffee table when I was like, two—scratched it all to shit  but she didn’t care. She _still_ has that fucking coffee table, with all the marks in it.” He smiles fondly, then swallows. “I, uh. I actually kept it a secret that I’d stopped dancing. When my mom found out she hit the roof. Found a school in the city, about an hour from where we lived, and drove me three times a week up until high school. Dad paid for me to go to this fancy artsy high school and...things got better after that. Like, _so_ much better.”

“Your parents sound awesome,” Wash says.

Tucker nods again, more fiercely this time. “My parents fucking rock. They’ll love you.”

Wash goes a little pink, but he thinks the lights of the bar hide it reasonably well. “I’m sorry you went through that, Tucker.”

Tucker waves a hand. “Nah, it’s cool. Not to be fucking cheesy, but I know who I am now, ya know? But that’s...that’s why I wanted to teach those kids. I started that class, you know. Went to the studio after and was like hey, why don’t you have any male instructors? I’ve got this idea for a class…and it filled up.”

“Does that studio do recitals?”

“Yeah! We have one is coming up next month, actually. It’s gonna be badass, not gonna lie.”

Wash grins. “Put me down for a ticket.”

Tucker laughs. “Dude, you do _not_ want to come to a kids ballet recital.”

“You just said it was gonna be badass!”

“Yeah for like... _me_ , and the parents!”

“I wanna come anyway,” Wash insists. “Support my fellow dance partner.”

“If you insist,” Tucker says, fishing out his phone. I’ll forward you the e-mail with the dates….there you go.”

Wash adds it to his google calendar while Tucker goes and gets them pretzels from the bar. “Anyway, enough about me,” Tucker says, waving a hand. “I’ve been talking about myself for like an hour now.”

“I like listening to you talk,” Wash says earnestly. He chooses to ignore the exaggerated eye roll from Church, who’s just returned from the bar as well juggling a series of plates.

“Well, now I wanna listen to _you_ talk,” says Tucker. “What do you think of Chorus so far? You like it?”

“I love it,” Wash says honestly. “It’s the most.....accepting place I’ve ever been.”

“Your old place wasn’t like that?”

Wash regards him carefully, but Tucker doesn’t look as if he’s trying to pry—he just looks curious. “Not exactly,” he says wryly. “We were...a competitive group. Even though we were supposed to be on the same team, we were always competing. Here...there’s what, six students competing in the amateur division at PSO? And everyone is encouraging each other, helping each other. It’s...nice. It’s really nice.”

“What about that pole studio you trained at?” Tucker asks. “They didn’t have a good vibe?”

“Not...like this place,” Wash says slowly. “And to be honest, I wasn’t involved as much. I, uh...wasn’t exactly supposed to be training there. My gymnastics couch was very strict. Every activity we did had to be accounted for, every meal was controlled.”

He can hear himself growing somber, and gives his head a little shake. “Anyway—that’s in that past now. I’m happy to be here, in this place. It feels good.”

“It feels kinda like home,” Tucker says.

At that moment, Donut arrives with a tray of champagne flutes, passing them around to everyone. It takes him five tearful minutes to get through the speech he’s scrawled on a bar napkin, but they all eventually toast to Church and Tex. Wash’s eyes meet Tucker’s as he sips his champagne, and when Tucker puts his glass down, he lights up all at once. “Oh shit, I love this song…” he glances at the empty dance floor, then slyly back to Wash. “Wanna go get the party started?”

Wash laughs, surprised. “What, you have something choreographed to this song?”

“No, that’s different!” Tucker protests, waving his hands. “This is just dancing in the club! That’s different from dancing in the studio!”

“If you say so,” Wash says. He slides back out of the booth, holding a hand out to Tucker formally. “Dance with me?”

Tucker does. Tucker twirls round and round on the dance floor, dreads fanning out in a circle, head thrown back as he laughs. It only takes the length of one song for the other bar patrons to join them, drawn to the dance floor—to the lights, to the music, and to Tucker, laughing in Wash’s arms, the most brilliant light of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i wrote a fic and didn't mention wash's sweet tooth, did the fic really happen
> 
> i am in the middle of a fic explaining tex and carolina's friendship bc i know that's probably kinda ?????? so it IS in the works, it's just taking me a while because i want it to be good shit and right now it's not.
> 
> HOPE YOU GUYS ARE ENJOYING THIS AU, I JUST REALLY LOVE FLUFF OKAY


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